


Anti-kink: Role-play

by ash_carpenter



Series: Anti-kink [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:06:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1828972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ash_carpenter/pseuds/ash_carpenter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Entirely unseasonal anti-kink fic  (series archived <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=ash_carpenter&keyword=Anti-kink&filter=all">here</a> on LJ), focussing on role-play. Sort of. </p>
<p>Sam has an absolutely awesome, fool-proof plan for surprising his brother for Christmas and getting some hot loving in return. </p>
<p>Sadly, his execution leaves a little to be desired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anti-kink: Role-play

** Christmas anti-kink: Roleplay **

 

Dean loved Christmas these days. And Sam loved Dean. He was totally going to selflessly make it the best Christmas ever for his brother, because he was awesome and generous.

And if it made Dean grateful enough to put out a lot? Well, it wasn’t like Sam was _planning_ it that way or anything.

Much.

However, if Sam’s incredibly magnanimous Christmassy gestures happened to earn him a bunch of dirty, hot sex with a Dean willing to try out any old kink that popped into Sam’s head? Well. It would be rude to turn him down.

It was going to be amazing. There’d be a tree and decorations and presents and cookies and eggnog… _lots_ of eggnog…and a drunk, grateful Dean willing to do whatever his fantastic little brother wanted him to.

Sam totally owned Christmas.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Shit, crap, fuck,” muttered Sam to himself as he tried to jostle the Christmas tree – which he _refused_ to acknowledge was too big, despite the fact that the top bent awkwardly against the ceiling – into the corner of the motel. There was no point in stealing…er, liberating…a puny little tree, so it was just going to have to fit, god damn it.

Stupid Christmas tree.

Just as he was giving the tree a bit of a kick to help it into the corner, the fire alarm began to ring. Sam was startled, although now that he thought about it, there was a bit of a burned smell coming from the direction of the little kitchen…

“Fuck!”

Stupid cookies.

It was possible that trying to bake cookies on a hotplate wasn’t the best idea in the world, but whatever. At least this motel had working fire extinguishers. Although Sam had to admit that the cookies were probably beyond saving.

Another peril of the oversized tree issue was that Sam hadn’t bought enough decorations to cover it. The few strings of tinsel and twelve baubles looked pretty sad spaced sparsely among acres of green, so Sam had to improvise with post-it notes, beer bottle caps and a pack of novelty glow-in-the-dark condoms.

If forced to be honest, Sam would have to admit that it looked a bit like the ornaments had been chosen by an alcoholic sex offender with OCD. Sam tried to improve the situation by writing cute little notes on the post-its and drawing some hearts, but somehow it all came out a bit…psycho-stalkerish.

Stupid decorations.

Fortifying himself with some potent eggnog, which was most definitely not stupid, Sam turned his attention to packing up Dean’s presents: a pair of slightly-too-tight jeans, a set of sensual massage oils with an instruction manual, a bottle of cheap whiskey and a cock ring. Not that he’d only bought Dean presents that would benefit himself, obviously. That was just a happy coincidence.

It rapidly became clear that his Scotch tape dispenser was evil. Evidently, its nefarious plan was to nick his fingers so many times that he bled to death without noticing, the nasty, jagged little bitch. Now he had blood smeared all over his wrapping paper! Which was newspaper he’d stolen from someone’s front yard, but that was hardly the point. And no, he didn’t think that the eggnog had contributed to his grievous injuries, but since he was on the subject, he’d somehow run out of said eggnog and would need to make some more. Weird.

Stupid presents.

Dean was going to be home in about ten minutes, which gave Sam just enough time to get himself nice and festive and ready for his big brother to sexually worship. Once he’d just had another quick glass or three of eggnog…

Soon, Sam was sitting smugly under the Christmas tree, a string of fairy lights wrapped around his naked form. Well, not really under the tree, as that had proved a bit challenging and he’d ended up with pine needles in some pretty unpleasant places, but certainly tree adjacent. And wall socket adjacent, since he was all plugged in and flashing.

He’d had the very bright idea of turning the lights on first and then wrapping himself up. Of course, he was very good at hog-tying (yet another unusual skill he’d perfected in his line of work) and right now he didn’t really have the use of his arms. But that didn’t really matter because Dean would be walking through the door any minute.

Oh, wait…Had he said five or six o’clock?

Six. Damn it, he’d said _six_ o’clock. So, to recap, Sam was drunk, tied up on the floor of his motel with a very unstable Christmas tree threatening to fall on him (or at least dispense novelty condoms on his head), flashing in every sense of the word – and Dean wouldn’t be home for another hour.

“Son of a bitch…”

Stupid eggnog.

Sam told himself not to panic, and for a few minutes he was just mildly pissed off with his situation and the fact that it was a bit chilly with his dangly bits catching the draft from under the door (and better believe that he was regretting his insistence on spending Christmas in Michigan because they’d be guaranteed snow and it would be “festive”).

A little while later, Sam realised that he wasn’t shivering anymore. Actually, he was feeling quite warm. That was better. Maybe the alcohol had numbed him.

Time marched on and quite warm turned into very warm. And then hot. Sam blew out a noisy breath and scrunched up his nose as he felt a trickle of sweat sliding down his back. Who’d have thought that fairy lights emitted so much heat? He shifted uncomfortably, hissing as he dislodged the sparkly cover off one of the lights and the bare bulb burned his skin.

As he got hotter, his slick skin turning pink, he began to panic a little. He was feeling a little singed, and what if the stupid lights had a malfunction? He might get electrocuted!

As the possibility of serious injury and even death solidified in his eggnog-addled mind, Sam began to thrash against the wire wrapped tightly around him, wriggling around on the floor like a landed fish. Damn it! His knots were too impenetrable! And the more he squirmed around, the tighter the bindings became, pulling taut against his skin and bringing the evil, scalding fairy lights into even closer contact.

“Help!” he yelled, all thoughts of dignity forgotten as his thrashing had the unfortunate consequence of bringing his swinging cock into intimate contact with an obnoxious blue light.

He flailed wildly, trying to get away from the pain, and accidentally rolled all the way under the tree, knocking its trunk. Despite the fact that he’d wedged it as tight into the corner as humanly possible, it immediately toppled over, trapping him beneath it, smashing all the baubles and sending garish condoms skittering across the needle-littered floor.

“HELP!!!! I’m trapped! Someone, please!” hollered Sam around a mouth full of tinsel, bucking up off the floor and trying to dislodge the tree, which he could now admit was ridiculously huge.

A stray branch whacked the controller for the fairy lights and they suddenly started playing Jingle Bells, their flashes syncing up with the music in a jaunty display.

“Oh, fucking fantastic,” muttered Sam as he tried to head-butt the tree off him. Raising his voice, he began to holler again, praying that someone would come and rescue him. And speaking of praying, where the hell was Castiel when Sam needed him?!

Stupid angels.

Suddenly, the door burst open, and Sam spied through the branches that Dean dashed through it, gun drawn and a panicked expression on his face.

“Sammy!”

“Dean! I’m here!”

Dean looked dubiously over at the Christmas tree, which was rustling furiously. He hadn’t lowered his weapon. “Sammy…? What happened? Did you get cursed?”

“What…? No, you idiot! I’m _under_ the tree,” he snapped. God, his brother was such a moron.

Not that he was in a position to be calling anyone names, but still….

“You’re what?”

“Dean, just help me! I’m getting fried, and I’m suffocating! And there’s a condom in my hair!”

“Uh…Okaaaay.” Shrugging, Dean lifted the tree off Sam with a grunt of effort and shoved it out the way.

His little brother was trussed up like a blinking, musical Christmas turkey. Thousands of pine needles had stuck to his sweaty skin and he had a post-it note that said “I love you!” adhered to his left nut. Plus, he did indeed have a bright orange condom in his hair.

Perhaps less surprisingly, he stank of booze.

Seeing how distressed his poor little brother was, Dean tried very hard not to laugh as he reached over and yanked the plug for the fairy lights out of the wall, wondering how Sam had managed to get in such a colossal mess. He’d only been gone for a couple of hours…

“So…Wanna tell me what’s going on?” asked Dean, looking down at Sam, who had flopped back against the ground with a sigh of relief at the sudden cessation of weight, light and irritatingly cheerful warbling.

“Um…Merry Christmas?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Okay, so things hadn’t exactly gone according to plan. However, in between bursts of hysterical laughter, Dean did make it apparent that he appreciated the gesture, even if its execution left a lot to be desired.

Deciding that he could effectively play the sympathy and the gratitude cards at the same time, Sam managed to quite brilliantly convince Dean to indulge one of his kinks. It had taken a little persuasion – because Dean just couldn’t seem to let go of the fact that one or two of their other kinky experiments had ended in trips to the emergency room, attempted arrest or public humiliation – but Sam had skilfully employed the Puppy Eyes of Doom. Dean hadn’t really stood a chance.

As it turned out, Dean wasn’t exactly averse to the idea of role play, and he’d agreed that they could dress up as long as Sam was the one who hauled his ass outside in the sub-zero temperatures to scare up some costumes. Cool costumes. Like Batman or the Godfather.

_“Why can’t we just dress up in one of the outfits we have?”_

_“Why, because being an FBI agent’s so sexy? Don’t be ridiculous, Sammy. Sometimes you have no sense of adventure…”_

After an appropriate amount of bitching about _that_ comment, Sam had set off on his mission to find a fancy dress store.

As it turned out, the problem with deciding to dress up on Christmas Eve was that the only costume store open in town was a seasonal hole-in-the-wall that only stocked Christmas-themed outfits. In addition, so late in the day there really weren’t many options, especially not in their sizes.

Dean’s eyebrows almost hit his hairline when Sam sheepishly pulled the Santa and the elf costumes.

“Sam…This isn’t really what I had in mind.”

“I know,” replied Sam miserably, sighing and trying to stuff red velvet back into the bag. “It’s stupid. I’ll take them back.”

“Now, wait…Let’s not be too hasty,” cut in Dean, swallowing and trying to look casual, even though his cheeks were a little pink. “I mean…You know. It could work.”

“It could?” asked Sam doubtfully.

“Yeah. It’s not my first choice, obviously, but you wanted to role play and…well…”

“What?”

“Youmightlooksexydressedlikeanelf,” mumbled Dean.

“Pardon?”

Dean sighed. “I think you’d look good as an elf. Cute.”

Sam gave Dean an incredulous look. “First off…Seriously? Secondly, _you’re_ the elf. Short-ass.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed into a glare. “Do you want to get laid or not?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean admired himself in the dresser mirror. The velvet felt quite nice against his naked skin, and he obviously hadn’t padded himself out since Sam wasn’t a chubby chaser. Now, the only question was whether or not to put on the beard…

Yes, definitely the beard. It was really astounding that he was so ridiculously hot that he could pull off a curly white beard. He grinned wolfishly as he admired himself.

“Hey, come on out of the bathroom, little boy…It’s time to sit on Santa’s knee,” said Dean in the most perverted voice he could muster, which would have made any seventies porn star blush.

“Dude, gross!” shouted Sam through the door. “That’s just wrong.”

“But I need you to get in my lap and show me how naughty or nice you are,” leered Dean, not caring that there was three inches of wood between them and Sam couldn’t see him.

Heh…wood. Damn, he was funny. Although he unfortunately couldn’t share his hilarity with his little brother, as he’d be teased about the “three inches” thing for the rest of his natural life.

“Dean,” whined Sam. “You sound like a pervert!”

“Yeah? And?” Dean couldn’t really see Sam’s point. After all, the little deviant was the one who wanted them to dress up in the first place, so what did he expect?

“Not the good kind of pervert! Like…a kiddie fiddler.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Well, you’re not a kid, so I don’t see your problem. Now get your ass out here so I can fiddle you.”

Hrm. Maybe Sam did have a point about the perverted thing. He looked down his body and realised that his red pants were tented and, yeah, the idea of Santa with a boner was a little bit wrong. Still…no point in getting prudish now. And he kinda really wanted to see his brother rocking that elf outfit, tight-fitting shorts and cute little vest and all.

Dean could swear that he could feel the heat from Sam’s bitchface through the door, but there was no reply.

“Sammy?”

A muffled few words seeped through the door.

“What was that?”

There was a heavy sigh, and then Sam said quietly, “I don’t want to come out.”

“Why not?”

“Because…”

“What? For Christ’s sake, Sam. Just spit it out.”

“I look silly,” mumbled Sam miserably, and Dean realised that the heat he’d felt through the door was probably from his brother’s embarrassment rather than a bitchface. Aw, bless. He tried to stifle a snigger.

“I’m sure you look hot.”

“I don’t.”

“Sure you do. Come on out…I’ve got a special package for you…”

Oh well, he might as well be as perverted as he wanted since it was pretty hard to trump gay incest in the “reasons you’re going to special hell” stakes anyway.

“Ew. Dean, stop saying stuff like that.”

“But I’m Santa!”

“Santa doesn’t say things like that!”

“Well, you’ve clearly never seen _Santa Claus is Cumming Downtown_ …”

There was a brief pause as Sam absorbed that little gem. “Thankfully, I haven’t.”

Dean huffed out a sigh. “Look, you wanted to play dress-up and I went along with it because I’m awesome like that. So now you have to get your sexy ass out here and plant it on my lap, okay?”

“Okay, but you have to promise not to laugh. And remember that you’re supposed to be Santa and I’m your helper, so those are the characters we have to play.”

“Are you suggesting that Santa molests his elves…?”

“Dean!”

“Okay, fine! But if I’m your boss then you have to do what you’re told. Deal?”

“I guess…But it can only be sex stuff.”

“What did you think I was gonna tell you to do? Take out the trash?” Dean shook his head. Although, he had to admit that it would be funny if Sam had to go outside in his outfit. He snickered.

“Dean!”

“Alright, fine! Jeez. I promise that I will only make you do filthy, perverted stuff involving my cock and my ass, okay? Does that make you feel better?”

Sam chuckled. “You’re the worst Santa ever…”

“Shut up, bitch,” smiled Dean. “Are you coming out here or what?”

Slowly, the door opened, and Sam emerged, head down and cheeks burning.

The pointy green hat with its little bell was slightly too small for Sam’s big skull and was hanging on precariously, seemingly through sheer force of will. Underneath Sam’s cherry-red face, the tight little green top barely fastened around his massive torso, buttons straining, and the matching shorts really left nothing at all to the imagination. Nothing. In fact, Dean was fairly sure that he could see the head of Sam’s cock was poking out of the bottom, trapped by his jaunty red-and-white striped tights. Said tights couldn’t really compete with the length of Sam’s legs and were straining to cover him, pulled almost see-through at several points. The stellar ensemble was capped off by a ridiculously pointy felt boot. Just the one boot.

Sam sighed deeply, lower lip sneaking out in a pout. “I lost my shoe.”

He must have dropped the damn thing on the way from the store to the car.

Dean nodded for a moment, face initially expressionless. As Sam peeked at him through his bangs, waiting for a reaction, Dean chewed desperately on his lips in an attempt to keep his expression neutral. His eyes lighted on the bare stockinged foot again, one toe poking out of a hole, and that was it; he lost it.

Sam looked mortified as Dean howled with laughter, slapping his knee and swiping at the tears leaking from his eyes.

“You dick!” he cried, awkwardly trying to pull his shorts lower.

“I’m sorry!” replied Dean in between guffaws, breath hitching. “I’m sorry, really. It’s just…”

“What?” demanded Sam pissily as Dean’s chuckles increased in volume again.

“You were right.”

“About?”

Dean tried to sober, looking Sam in the eyes and coughing in an attempt to cover up a snort. “You don’t look hot at all!”

Sam gaped in outrage and then his face collapsed in his very sulkiest expression. “I told you that! And…and…You don’t look so hot yourself, you know. McBeardy.”

Dean felt affronted for all of a second before he remembered how much of an idiot Sam looked, which cheered him up no end. At least he didn’t have a boner anymore. “I look awesome and you know it. And McBeardy? Really? That’s the best you’ve got?”

“It’s hard to make witty comebacks when your nuts feel like they’re in a vice!”

“Aw, poor wittle elf. Want Santa to rub ‘em better…?”

“Ugh. Shut up. And…yeah.”

Dean grinned and walked over to his brother, noting that he did look sort of adorable, even if he was dressed like a total tool. He leaned up and kissed Sam’s pout right back into his face, nipping at his lips and licking his mouth open.

Sam spluttered and coughed, spitting out his mouthful of nylon beard. “Gross!”

Yanking the offending item out of the way, Sam pressed his lips back to his brother’s and thoroughly mapped out the inside of his mouth with a hot, eager tongue, both of them getting so carried away that Sam’s hat got knocked off with a cheerful jingle.

“Dean…” whined Sam.

“What?”

“I can’t get a hard-on in this outfit. It’s too tight.”

Dean pulled back, shaking his head. “Well, you’re the idiot who chose it.”

“It was this or a Mrs. Claus costume!” Seeing the way Dean’s eyes lit up at the prospect, he shook his head quickly, expression mildly disgusted. “No freakin’ way, dude. This is disturbing enough without me putting on a skirt.”

Sighing at the lost opportunity – ‘cause the thing about skirts, see, was that you could just yank them up and start pawing at the goods and…er, anyway, that wasn’t the point, because no-one here got off on women’s clothing or anything – Dean wrapped his arms around Sam and nuzzled against his neck. “Why does our sex keep ending up disturbing?”

“I know, right? Who’d have thought that two brothers fucking could end up weird…” replied Sam teasingly, the corners of his mouth lifting.

“If you’d just got Batman and Robin costumes, it would have been fine.”

“Yeah, that would have been completely normal.”

“You’re so my Robin.”

“Holy Delusional Narcissist, Batman!” exclaimed Sam, pitching his voice an octave higher.

Dean slapped Sam’s ass, giving it a firm grope while he was there and finding that his cock began to take an interest in the proceedings again. Although its resurrection faltered a little as his eyes travelled over the stripey tights.

“Dude, you need to take that off. My dick just can’t take you seriously.”

“Yeah, well you’re not exactly setting me on fire either,” muttered Sam, trying to fight his way out of his garments. In the end, Dean had to help him to fumble his buttons open and then wriggle out of the clingy cloth without splitting it. Once Sam was naked and Dean had been informed in no uncertain terms that having a pervy Santa rubbing off against him while making bad puns was _not_ sexy, the elder Winchester relented and stripped as well.

Dean grabbed the duvet off one of the beds and then shuffled naked over to the sofa, settling themselves on it and wrapping up. The room had a real working fireplace, which Sam had (quite miraculously) managed to light earlier without setting the place on fire and they snuggled down together, warm and comfortable.

Sam had rolled his eyes as he was jostled into the ‘girl’ position, but actually it was pretty nice lying back against Dean’s chest, bracketed by his thighs and cuddled tight to him. Not that anyone was going to mention it, obviously. He smiled as Dean’s lips pressed softly to his temple, then cheek, and finally the corner of his mouth.

“You know what, Sammy?”

“What?”

“Sofa sex is so safe and vanilla that it isn’t even a kink at all.”

“Sounds right up our street.”

Dean evidently agreed, hands roaming over Sam’s flushed skin, greedy and possessive, and his mouth seeking out contact. Sam just lay back and allowed Dean to touch him for a few luxurious minutes, stretching out like a cat and thrusting his hips up to press his cock into his brother’s fist. When he became too turned on for that to suffice, he turned over, pressing his chest to Dean’s and grinding against him.

“You know what, Santa?” he purred, licking at Dean’s lush lips with heavy lids and lust-blown eyes making him look thoroughly debauched. “I’ve been a very good boy this year. I think I deserve a reward...”

“Sicko,” reprimanded Dean with a filthy grin, grabbing Sam’s ass and pulling him down, snugging him against his body.

Soon, and with a complete and utter lack of drama, Sam was inside Dean, both of them panting and pulling one another closer. The couch was an admittedly tight fit, but no-one fell off or suffered an injury, and they made sweet, leisurely and entirely uneventful love for twenty minutes before Sam fucked Dean into orgasm and followed him over the edge. Wet, sticky and sated, they dozed in the afterglow and cuddled in an unmentionably girly way, blinking themselves to lucidity as an old mantle-shelf clock chimed in the new day at midnight.

“Guess it’s Christmas.”

“Guess so.”

“So...where’s the eggnog, bitch?”

“Oh...Uh. Someone drank it.”

“Oh really? And who might that have been?”

“Santa...? Possibly an elf. Seriously, dude, they’re sneaky.”

Dean nodded, mouth set in a grim line. “Well, that settles it. Now I have to hunt Santa. Teach that chubby bitch to steal my eggnog...”

Sam grinned, bumping his nose against Dean’s. “Why don’t you open your presents first? You might just forgive him.”

“My presents? As in the presents that were under the horizontal condom tree...?”

Sam glanced towards the corner of the room, taking in the devastation. Crushed branches, broken baubles, fire-extinguished cookies, burned-out fairy lights and an array of post-it notes and novelty johnnies, underneath all of which lurked his oh-so-skilfully-wrapped presents. At this rate he was never going to get Dean into a cock ring...

“Fuck!”

Stupid Christmas.

 

 

THE END


End file.
